5 Times Rocket Kicked Grass
by AlyCat3
Summary: Title self explanatory, just a bit of a character study


Disclaimer: I do not own Gaurdians of the Galaxy or anything else you recognize

* * *

><p>"You are making me kick grass!" he cried, using the nails on his feet to take up as much of the little dying blades at his feet. He hadn't known Peter very long, but already he could tell he was one of those no good do gooders. Yet his argument was logical, his motivation sound, and it ticked him off to no end. He didn't want to risk his own limb for a galaxy that had never done a thing for him, but the whole living in the same galaxy as them that was about to be exploded had its merits. So here he stood, kicking his grass and fuming at everything all the while agreeing with his partner and heading after the others.<p>

* * *

><p>Clumps of his fur were strewn about. It wasn't often he grew angry enough to pull on his own self, but this day in particular just seemed to have that effect on him. Where to begin? It didn't help that he and Peter were stuck on a deserted island, with no way to reach the ship. It was far from ideal that Star Lord got his arm broke when they got captured. But no, to top it all off, when Rocket managed there escape from the natives, he lost his gun! So yeah, take all those things, culminated together, and his hands were fastened into tight balls around his ears, and when he pulled away black and gray came with him. He sighed and acknowledged that all that they could handle, the ship had been half way here when they lost contact, Peter's arm was set in a reasonable sling, and he could make another gun. Then it happened, the two of them just so happened to fall into a pit. Maybe the natives had made it, or maybe it was natural, but either way, Rocket lost all sense and began kicking every last tuft of grass he could find until they were rescued.<p>

* * *

><p>Groot was missing. How you loose a giant talking tree was beyond him, but some how Drax had done it. When he'd first come back treeless, Rocket had only been mildly concerned. After all, Groot was a big boy and could take care of himself, but that had been twenty four hours ago. Now all he could think of was dehydrated roots, wild fires, lack of sunlight, and worst of all experimentation. He had tried everything, done everything, but nothing the others sad or did could rid him of the guilt he was feeling. So he began kicking the lush green grass in vengeance, outrage, and guilt. Cursing the planet and everything in it. That is until Drax came out carrying tree splinters, in one hand and fresh dirt in the other, Rocket bolted off at once for the old planting pot.<p>

* * *

><p>He saw red. It made everything blurry around the edges except the sharp focus in front of him, which had steadily grown more red as time passed by and he realized what happened. He had tried to escape this place, and he had failed. They had stuck him in a larger enclosure, one that had trees and a mock sky, and grass. It was all red to me. He began reacting on instinct, and by the time the red faded away, he was standing in his own dead patch of the grass. He had kicked and vented and torn up everything his nails could reach, and still he was still in the facility, they had probably laughed at the whole thing on camera. Then he began to plan. Sure he had been recaptured, placed in a larger cell, but it did not supplement his will for freedom. He would escape here one day, he vowed. He kicked the ground one more time for good measure, then he began to plan.<p>

* * *

><p>When in doubt, kick it out. That's what he had taught himself back at the facility. When words didn't help, nor did they came naturally to him back then, besides that was something <em>they <em>taught him. When clawing and biting only made the pain so much worse, he would bunch his legs and and begin kicking for all his worth until everything drained out of him. It was his way of saying he was done with the world, that he'd had enough of life's sick jokes. So he kicked, reaching for anything his legs could, as the stranger had him by the back of his neck. He kicked and clawed and still he kicked some more until his legs were likely to fall off. Then suddenly, the pressure was gone, and he tumbled to the ground still twisting his leg muscles in every direction possible. Then Gamora was there, her voice soft as it met his ears, promising relief. His legs began to slow.


End file.
